A Cookie Never Hurt
by YukinaKid
Summary: Sometimes Clint just can't foresee everything on a mission and the only remedy is coming home. But in the end, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't Clint's only home anymore. Exhaustion!Clint with team!feels.


A/N: So this was inspired by lots of things. Beta'd by the lovely MountainRose who is one of the best people in the universe.

* * *

"That's your solution? Have a cookie?' Astrid asked.  
'No, my solution is to run down to the beach and hide out until this is all over,' Sam said. 'But a cookie never hurts." ― Michael Grant, _Gone_

* * *

He'd been on this mission for exactly four days and fifteen hours and he already could feel gravity pulling his shoulders further downward. He resisted the urge to sag into the chair he was occupying on the jet taking him back to headquarters. Although the mission was a simple one, it was complicated by unforeseen circumstances and the luck that always came with missions that seemed too simple to be true. He had been in charge of a team of five, watching their backs, being hyper vigilant to ensure their survival. This was why he hated working on a team. It wasn't that he couldn't work well with others; it was that he felt this deep seeded _need_ to take care of every little problem, be five steps ahead of every adversary, and foresee any possible kinks that could make their mission go belly-up. Being that on edge for any length of time was exhausting at best and catastrophic at worst, fraying his nerves to nubs. But he had done his job and done it well, beating the expected wrap up date by two whole days. Now he sat on the edge of the jet's unforgiving seat, refusing to let his exhaustion win out in front of anyone. Sometimes he wished he wasn't so bullheaded and would be able to relax just the tiniest bit before he had locked himself in his undisclosed apartment and ensconced himself in his nest of ultra-soft blankets prepping to pass out for an entire uninterrupted eighteen hours.

Arriving on the Helicarrier resulted in little fanfare, which was just how he liked it. Hefting his duffel over his shoulder, he nodded a silent farewell to his assigned team and made to beeline for his bunk. His thoughts drifted to his luxurious room at Stark Towers- _Avengers Tower_, he corrected- but the thought of having to go out of his way for loitering agents in the hallway sounded exhausting enough. He was mustering all his energy to lighten his steps into not betraying how utterly bone tired he was to begin with so any lateral service would have to do.

Just as he was beginning to weigh the merits of ducking into one of the air ducts and passing out there, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder.

"Agent Barton, I didn't expect to see you here," Steve grinned warmly at him, making Clint smile distractedly back at him. Steve was dressed in civilian clothes and seemed to be escorting an increasingly nervous Banner alongside him.

"Steve, it's Clint remember? And I _work_ here. Hi, Dr. Banner. What are you both doing here?" Clint raised a sardonic eyebrow, shifting his duffle bag from his shoulder to beside his feet.

Bruce seemed to jump on that question pretty quickly, as if he had been waiting for that exact distraction. "I'm doing some unofficial consulting and I asked Steve if he would come along. You know, for company." He shifted his hands as if to wring them and aborted the action halfway through. "And it's Bruce." He flashed Clint his unassuming smile.

"Ah, did Agent Fray try to make a move on you? I always knew she had a thing for the silent and deadly types," Clint nodded his head, a serious expression on his face. "You know, Fury does have a type of restraining order for these types of _situations_." Clint waggled his eyebrows, purposely while he mentally took note to talk to Fury about Bruce's long standing unease despite Hulk's good behavior.

The horrified look on Bruce's face and the bright red flush on Steve's were totally worth the detour from his bed as he continued to school his features in a faux grave mask. He must not have eliminated the joking spark in his eyes because Bruce suddenly gave an abrupt bark of laughter, shaking his head in fond exasperation. Steve still looked baffled, switching his attention from Bruce to Clint and back again before giving up on any understanding with a huff of his own laughter.

Without Clint noticing, Bruce had somehow come within arm's length of his person, something he really should have noticed. Clint fought not to flinch and step back as Bruce peered at him, a frown playing on his face. He wasn't sure how he looked, but if it was anything like he felt he must look one step from collapse. He opted for a tired smile and scooping up his duffel.

"Well, good to see you both. I'm gonna go in for a debrief and a shower; though probably not in that order." Clint made to turn towards the barracks when an assertive hand grabbed his bicep. Clint turned to Bruce, a questioning eyebrow raised, deciding the only way out of this confrontation was to throw every espionage technique he had in his arsenal into this conversation.

"Clint," Bruce began, eyes brimming with unbridled concern. He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "We're going to get Italian later tonight and I'd really like for you to join us." And honestly, if Bruce didn't beat him to the punch, making a weird combination of doe eyes and concerned-parent eyes that he knew he couldn't beat.

Clint bit back a sigh born from sheer exhaustion as he conceded defeat. Even if it wasn't such a wonderful idea, he didn't think he'd be able to put up any kind of resistance against the possible safety of being around his team. His _real_ team. Bruce must have sensed his silent consent because he withdrew his hand, but kept it close in case Clint thought about bolting. Clint had to suppress a laugh; if anyone knew about disappearing it would be Bruce Banner. Steve gently pried Clint's duffel out of his hand as Bruce took over leading the way.

It was funny, Clint mused, that Bruce had hidden behind Steve before his 'protection mode' had been activated. Despite being very adamant about not being a medical doctor, somehow Bruce had a hard time not acting like one. That overprotective streak was so central to who he was that he couldn't _not_ do everything in his power to step in when someone he cared about couldn't fight for themselves. Clint didn't know how a group of people more likely to cause destruction to themselves had become the people who could read Clint almost as well as Natasha could. Just in the few minutes after he had run into Banner and Rogers he could feel the insistent tendrils of bone deep exhaustion advancing on him, taking advantage of his guard being let down. For the first time in almost five days he didn't have focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He didn't know why fate had chosen this moment to shine on him, but he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He didn't notice he had actually boarded a Stark jet until Bruce's curls were suddenly in his line of sight, fumbling to buckle his seat. Clint took over automatically, smiling wearily at Bruce's amused look that did nothing to hide his underlying worry. He had not asked what Clint's mission was like Stark usually did, which made Clint relax even more. Clint hated not being able to read his teammates in on his missions; almost every single one was classified 'need-to-know'. For the first time in his entire life he had a place where he could be honest and not hide who or what he was and anything that undermined that always put him on edge.

He resolutely promised himself that the least he could do was stay awake and participate in any conversations Bruce and Steve might bring up, but his eyelids had definitely not agreed to that. He kept catching himself staring out the jet's windows, eyes half mast, brain halfheartedly making an attempt to stay awake. He belatedly realized that both Bruce and Steve had been silent since the encounter on the Helicarrier. Curious, he eyed the both of them. Steve was reading a worn, dog-eared book, probably _The Great Gatsby _and Bruce was seemingly enthralled by a Stark Pad occasionally muttering science talk under his breath. Clint couldn't help the fond smile that crossed his features as he finally let his body win and he succumbed to sleep.

* * *

The next thing he was aware of was hushed voices and his face pressed against the chest of someone _very_ warm. Rapidly cataloging the last thing he remembered, he hazarded a cracked lid, gazing up at the face that belonged to the body that was carrying him. His eye caught a flash of short, blonde hair and his brain supplied him with _Steve, safe_. It took an additional fifteen seconds for Clint to realize he was being cradled by Captain America like he was a four year old conked out on the drive home. His next revelation was that he had been manhandled and hadn't even woken up, not to mention the fact that he had fallen asleep in the first place. That was the most disturbing, he decided. His body had never betrayed him so thoroughly before.

He was laid carefully on a couch that felt suspiciously like the one in the main common room at the Avenger's Tower. He suspected the only reason no one called him on playing possum was the fact that Natasha was still out on her own low-key mission and everyone else could never tell the difference anyways. He was covered with one of the afghans kept on the back of his favorite recliner, the material still cool and refreshing. He let out a small, contented sigh before he could check it, snuggling down into the couch. He could make out the words of the hushed conversation around him.

"I can't believe he's still passed out. I mean he's a _superspy_. For the first four months I am pretty sure Natasha didn't sleep and I barely even _saw_ Barton. Now he's letting Steve drag him around like an overgrown _rag_ doll…" Stark trailed on into silence for a moment. "Okay, that sounded wrong. Scratch that. He seriously let you in his personal bubble? Because every time I try that I usually end up dodging small pointy things. I swear they must have sheaths in their _skin_ because I've have Jarvis scan—" There was a small 'ump!' noise and Tony fell silent and Clint couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. He cracked his eye again, but this time he was rewarded with an intimate view of Stark's left eyeball. In a matter of seconds he was off the couch and across the room, defending himself with the first projectile he could find; namely Banner's eyeglasses. The look on Stark's face was something he was definitely going to ask Jarvis to replay later.

A tense silence followed, mostly spent by the three watching and waiting for Bruce's reaction to the very sudden encounter. Bruce did look a bit stunned, his mouth opening and closing much like a confused goldfish. He did not, however, look green. Steve was clutching a second afghan and had it spread open like he was about to smother Bruce like a flame, waiting for a hint of green. Tony sat crouched next to the couch Clint had vacated, arms splayed back behind him comically as if he had been tipped over. Adrenaline was thrumming through Clint's veins, making it difficult for him to consciously relax. He did manage to relax his stance into a parade rest through sheer willpower and very deliberately fiddled with Banner's glasses, breaking the stillness.

Of course it was Tony that spoke up first. "Okay, who wants doughnuts? I really want doughnuts. Doughnuts and a movie. Yup, okay. Jarvis? Get that doughnut place on the phone." He hopped up and casually strolled past Banner to the kitchen, chatting candidly with his A.I. Bruce turned to watch him go in a stupor before rounding back around to look at Clint. The moment Clint met his eyes Bruce surprised him by bursting into laughter. It was infectious and soon Clint found himself chuckling back. Steve added in a wry grin as he refolded the afghan, shaking his head in what Clint hoped was fond exasperation.

"What exactly were you planning on doing with my glasses?" Bruce managed to get out between stifled giggles.

Clint shook his head, trying to contain his own laughter which was bordering on hysterical. "Honestly, Doc, you don't wanna know. I once used a pair of sunglasses to escape a maximum security prison." He tried to school his features but he just couldn't keep the smile off his face. "I can neither confirm nor deny any other actions during that particular mission." He handed Bruce his glasses, running his fingers through his hair and trying to hide the adrenaline crash.

He was listing dangerously to the left before he decided just to drape himself over the back of the couch instead of walking around to the front of it. Steve gave what could only be a very undignified snort of laughter as he gently began to rearrange the archer on the seat of the couch instead of the back. Bruce was still attempting to stifle a rogue giggle from somewhere behind him when his body decided to crash again for the second time in… hours? Clint honestly had no idea how long it had been since he had left the Helicarrier. He only knew that he suddenly had a _monstrous_ headache and now his body seemed far too tired to do something as simple as sleep. He burrowed deeper into the cushion and did his best not to let a groan escape.

He was in the middle of pretending the world didn't exist when he was rudely disturbed by a finger poking him. He weighed the merits of breaking the offending digit when Bruce's voice rumbled near his ear.

"I know your head must be aching but if you'll help us balance out your blood sugar you'll feel better. I brought you the lightly frosted chocolate ones; they're still warm."

Clint perked up at that. He turned his face and peered up at Bruce who was indeed holding a plate of four doughnuts. Reluctantly, he pushed himself upright before taking the proffered plate. Taking an enormous bite out of the first one, he let himself smile broadly.

"Bruce, I could kiss you. These are just…" he ended the sentence with a moan of pleasure as he cradled the plate closer to his chest.

Bruce gave him a wry smile. "I'm not sure it's me you should kiss. Tony would feel very left out since he had the doughnuts delivered. I'd hate to do anything to irritate him because he might withhold lab time."

"I wouldn't do that, Brucey," Tony piped up, strolling casually to the back of the couch and propping himself against it with a plate of half a dozen doughnuts in his hand. "Who am I to get in the way of my two best friends' man love? Besides, if I withheld your lab time _I'd_ be the one being punished. No, I'd much rather go a more traditional route, like itching powder or shaving cream to the face."

Clint raised an eyebrow at him and narrowed his eyes in mock offense, chewing the doughnut in a deliberately slow manner. Tony gazed cooly back for a solid minute before throwing up a free hand in exasperation. "How is it that you can have doughnut crumbs all over you and your hair sticking up like a peacock and _still_ look intimidating? I mean does S.H.I.E.L.D. offer an 'Intimidation Techniques 101' course? You know what? I don't want to know. We're going to watch a movie and I'm going to forget all the mental images I conjured up just now. So scoot over." Tony yanked the afghan from Clint and bodily squeezed into the space between his feet and the armrest. Clint made a noise of protest, but otherwise complied with giving the billionaire a _little_ space.

Steve sat in front of the couch and leaned back, close enough to Clint's face that he felt safe but far enough that he didn't feel smothered. Bruce took the recliner immediately to Clint's left. Tony took hold of Clint's feet, now freed of his sweaty combat boots, and draped them regally over his lap. Steve had decided upon a suspenseful White House movie and Jarvis dimmed the lights.

Twenty minutes into the movie Clint found himself cataloging every twitch Tony made and the slow rhythm of Steve's breaths. He listened for the refrigerator's low hum and the soft noise the DVD player was making. He found that the harder he tried to turn off the calculating mission part of his brain, the more aware of his surroundings he was. His muscles ached from being clenched unconsciously and his mind screamed at his brain to let him rest. He had to keep reminding himself of where he was and that his mission was over and his job was done. Recently he had found it harder and harder to turn his 'mission persona' off, especially if he neglected to do so for long periods of time. The blankets were too warm, the sounds too loud, and if he could just manage to get it all to _shut up_ he might have a chance…

Steve's hand had suddenly made its way to his knee, the warm heat silencing the frantic exhaustion rattling through his body. Clint breathed a sigh as his body melted under the safety the physical connection exuded. It occurred to Clint that Steve's seating choice had not been random. It was easy to forget that Steve was actually very wise despite the culture shock he was still trying to get over. Steve had been very quiet the entire evening, which by itself wasn't entirely unusual, but now Clint wondered if he wasn't silently trying to figure out the best way to help. The rules of human interaction had changed drastically since his previous lifetime and he had been mortified the first time Tony had given him a huge hug. But he also knew what it was like to live in combat mode almost constantly and never being able to show weakness. Clint was surprised to realize that Steve probably understood his perpetual tension the best, especially since he had become Captain America. Steve was not just offering physical comfort; he was also offering to take over Clint's watch, guaranteeing his team's safety while he rested. Clint's chest swelled with affection for his team, his _friends_, and vowed to show Steve just how much that meant to him later.

Clint let his eyes fall shut and for the first time in almost five days, he drifted into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
